


The time(s) Harry Potter landed Draco Malfoy in the Infirmary

by mfingenius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Beauxbatons Student Draco Malfoy, Don't copy to another site, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 19:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19115917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mfingenius/pseuds/mfingenius
Summary: Harry's fourth year is building up to be a complete disaster. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang are at Hogwarts. There's a particular blond Harry wants to woo, but every single one of his attempts seem to only make the blond hate him.Will he manage to get a date to the Yule Ball?





	The time(s) Harry Potter landed Draco Malfoy in the Infirmary

White blonde hair.

Grey eyes.

Long lashes.

Perfect, pink lips.

An almost delicate jaw, long, artistic fingers, narrow hips.

The best arse Harry’s ever seen.

“Harry, you’re drooling.” Hermione says. She should see who Harry’s looking at. She’d be drooling, too. Anyone would be. There’s no way anyone could resist those  _legs_. Just  _look at them_! Harry’ll be drooling for the rest of the year, and honestly, he can’t even be mad about it.

“Drooling?” It’s Ron now. He looks towards where Harry’s looking - the blond whispers something into Blaise Zabini’s ear.  _Blaise Zabini_! He’s not even French! What does he have that Harry doesn’t?! “Oh mate, not  _that_  git!”

“You don’t even know him,” Hermione points out. She makes a face and shoves a napkin at Harry’s face. “Seriously, Harry, the drool. It’s unattractive.”

Harry dabs the napkin mindlessly at his mouth. Wow, he really  _is_  drooling.

“I don’t  _need_  to know him, he’s speaking to a Slytherin!” Ron says defensively.

“Well, maybe if  _you_  spoke fluent French he’d speak to you.” Hermione says snidely. “As it is, Zabini’s the only choice he has-”

“Or anyone from his school!” Ron points out.

“They’re all seventh years, and he’s fourteen!”

“Shouldn’t have come, then, should he have?”

Harry stops listening to his best friends bicker, because all he can possibly see is Zabini, throwing his head back laughing and throwing an arm around his blond’s shoulders.

_Harry’s_  blond.

“Harry!” Ron hisses. “Harry, what are you  _doing_?”

Oh. Oh, he’s moving. To their own accord, Harry’s legs carry him to the Slytherin table, where the blond is sitting. He thinks that he should be panicking. He has no plan, he doesn’t know the blond’s name, he doesn’t even  _speak french_! And yet, he continues to walk very calmly towards the blond.

When he reaches him, Zabini’s the first one to notice him. He looks up at Harry with a mix of amusement and apprehensive curiosity. 

“Do you need something, Potter?” He drawls with a cocked eyebrow.

“Yes.” Harry says. The blond turns and looks at Harry curiously. “I’m Harry Potter.”

He holds out his hand, and the blond cocks an eyebrow at him and leans back, a sly smirk on his face. He doesn’t shake Harry’s hand.

Harry lets his hand drop. “Err. Do you speak English?”

The blond lifts a shoulder. Harry can see Zabini’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

“I - err-” Harry  _definitely_  should’ve thought more about this. His whole face is heating, and he doesn’t know what to do anymore.

“Alright,” And  _thank Merlin,_ Ron is there, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and grimacing. “Alright, yeah, time to go Harry. Come on.”

Harry’s face burns as Ron walks him out the Great Hall. 

“It’s alright, mate.” Ron says mildly. “You’ll forget all about the git by tomorrow.”

Ron, however, is wrong.

Two weeks pass where Harry does very little other than stare at the blond - constantly in Zabini’s company - but he doesn’t try to talk to him again. He doesn’t think publicly embarrassing himself again is going to help him get the blond.

Three weeks in, and Wood organizes a Quidditch game against the Beauxbatons team. Harry thinks  _this is it_.  _This is my chance to impress him_.

Of course, he realizes that plan is going to fail the second he arrives in the Quidditch pitch and realizes that Beauxbatons’ seeker  _is_  the blond, and his arse looks even better on a broom than it usually does.

And really, were the rest of them not as attractive as they are, the other players might’ve stood a chance, but, for some reason, they all look bloody gorgeous.

Gryffindor gets its arse kicked spectacularly.

Since Hogwarts Quidditch is cancelled for the season, Harry doesn’t have another chance to impress the blond. Anything he tries, backfires spectacularly; sending flowers triggered an allergic reaction that landed Draco - because Harry’s discovered his future husband’s name is  _Draco_  - in the infirmary for a week, trying to speak French to him ended up with Harry insulting him instead of wooing him, and getting him flowers once again - ones he wasn’t allergic to, Harry made sure - ended with a bee sting right to the nose, which he  _was_  allergic to, hence Harry landing him in the infirmary once again.

It’s hopeless.

Right when he’s in the middle of complaining about it to a very done Hermione Granger, the blond sits down next to him.

Harry stops breathing.

“I-” Draco’s cheeks turn red, and he speaks with a heavy french accent that Harry’s already half in love with. “I was told you were trying to -  _woo_ me?”

Shit.

“Err, yes.” Harry says. 

He shoots Hermione an ‘SOS’ look, and she just smiles and says, in a too sweet voice, “Goodbye Harry.”

He’s left alone with Draco, sitting on a table on the library. Hermione, the witch, hasn’t gone far. She’s still close enough to hear everything, though not close enough to talk to.

“So?” Draco asks. “You wanted to say something?”

_Shit_.

“Yes.” Harry says. Silence, and a Draco’s cocked eyebrow. Then, “Yes. Err. Yeah. I - I’m Harry Potter.”

Draco smirks. “I know. Golden Boy, right?”

It’s Harry’s turn to go red. Wood started the nickname, back when he discovered how good Harry was at Quidditch, and people still call him that regularly.

“Well, I-” He stutters. “Uh, yes. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I - err.” He scrambles for something to say. “Will you be here for Christmas?”

“Christmas?” Draco asks.

“Yes. The Yule Ball.” Draco raises an eyebrow, and Harry quickly continues. “The ball? For the champions? It’s on Christmas, and I was wondering if you’d like to go with me. You don’t have to. If you don’t like dancing, we can just skip the ball, go up to my room.”

Draco goes red, and Harry’s words catch up with his brain. He sees Hermione face-palm from the corner of his eye.

“Shit. I didn’t - that’s not how - I didn’t mean sex. I don’t want to have sex with you. I mean, I might, someday, but that’s not what I -  _shit_.”

He’s ready for Hermione to  _Avada Kedavra_  him - and if the look on her face is any indication, she’s ready for that, too - but to his great surprise, Draco lets out a tiny laugh.

It’s melodic; Harry’s set for as long as he can listen to that sound again.

“I think I understand,” Draco says. His smile is the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever going to see in his life, he’s certain. “I will go to the Yule Ball with you, Harry Potter.”

“Oh.” Harry blinks, stunned. Hermione looks just as surprised as he does. “Oh, alright. Err, thank you.”

“Meanwhile, we can go out?” Draco asks, looking inquisitive. “No allergic flowers?”

Harry laughs, and interlaces their fingers hesitantly. When Draco smiles encouragingly, he clasps his hands more firmly. 

“Yes,” He agrees. “No allergic flowers.”

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](https://mfingenius.tumblr.com/)


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